The Rakkor Way of Speaking
by sarcasticallydelicious
Summary: Sometimes swords are a simpler mode of communication.
1. Native Speakers

Persiflage n. frivolous bantering talk : light raillery

* * *

Leona smacked her opponent's sword away with her buckler, leaping forward in its wake. She flew into the other nine year old with all the force of her thin body. They rolled and landed in a heap of gangly limbs.

Leona rose, laughing, and offered Molik a hand. He grasped it with a grin and she hauled him to his feet.

"Again?"

He nodded.

To Leona, these spars were the Rakkor version of small talk. The opening salute was the greeting, the setting of stance the "how are you."

When blades finally met, steel against steel: that was when she could see the character of a person. Were they brave or timid? Were they a careful planner, or did they rush into things headlong? Did they actually enjoy your company, or would they rather be elsewhere?

Molik, for example. As evidenced by his mechanical movements, he practiced out of habit rather than passion. Fear, too, motivated him. He feared the laughter of his classmates, but that fear made him timid, and more likely to lose.

Just now, for example, he passed up an unintentional opening, one she should have been punished for. She knew he had seen it. But he hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then it was too late and she had recovered from her stumble.

Leona only partially participated in these conversations, opting to listen more and speak less. When she exerted herself, her voiced tended to dominate the conversation, and what good came from practicing a monologue?

Finally, seeing an inexcusable opening, Leona lunged forward, ramming Molik in the chest with her shield.

Just because she focused on listening didn't mean she'd let him get away with saying something dumb.

She helped him up just as Pantheon walked over. Molik thanked her and ran to talk to Varina, leaving Leona alone with her friend.

"Care for a match?"

He nodded with a grin half hidden by his oversized helmet.

As they settled into their stances across from each other, Leona couldn't help but think how glad she was to have him. At least here she could speak her mind.


	2. Another Battlefield

Travail n. 1a : work especially of a painful or laborious nature: toil, b: a physical or mental exertion or piece of work: task, effort, c: agony, torment, 2: childbirth, labor

A/N: No, Pantheon doesn't own any pants.

* * *

"Artisan of War, a word, if I may?"

Pantheon turned to the changing room's intruder. The robed man looked tiny peeking hesitantly through a door meant to accommodate the likes of Braum and Mundo. Olaf, Pantheon's teammate from his last match, shrugged.

Well, if he was needed for official League business, at least he could avoid the media circus outside.

Shouldering his spear, Pantheon walked to join the Institute's errand boy. The man did not seem much taller up close, but by now Pantheon was used to towering over these lowlanders.

As he'd hoped, the man led him down one of the many side corridors, away from the pomp and circumstance. Pantheon took note of the turns as they walked both out of habit and so he could use this escape in the future.

Finally they stopped next to large window overlooking the courtyard. The man turned and handed him a slip of paper.

Pantheon glanced at it, and scowled.

"An invitation? To the gala tonight? I respectfully decline."

"That is not an option." The sunlight filtering through the window lit the robed man's face, highlighting the gray peppering his beard. "You have not attended a single such event since entering the League. If you miss any more, we will have discipline you."

"Discipline me?" Pantheon let out a booming laugh. "What is this, finishing school? What will you do, send me to bed without dinner?"

The League messenger crossed his arms. "Hardly. You will be suspended from fighting on the Rift until the matter is resolved."

Pantheon crossed his arms in turn. "That is unacceptable. My place is on the battlefield, not sucking up to a bunch of puffed-up bureaucrats."

"Well, if you want access to this battlefield, go to the event." He handed Pantheon another sheet of paper. "In case you need a reminder of what you agreed to when you joined the League." The man walked a little way down the hall, opened a door, and held it open pointedly. "See you tonight."

Pantheon walked through, thankful his helmet masked his facial expression. The man was simply a messenger, and did not deserve his ire.

On the plus side, this passage opened up right outside his room.

* * *

The great hall's resplendent décor was beyond extravagant. Heavily embroidered banners from each attending state adorned the walls. The room shone with a hundred floating magelights. The cost of the flower arrangements alone could have feed a village for a month.

Pantheon stood awkwardly near the entrance to the hall. Inside, throngs of bedecked men and women stood in small groups, each conversation blending together into a wave of incomprehensible chatter.

It had been years since he had been in any situation quite this intimidating.

Trying to figure out what exactly he was supposed to be doing here, Pantheon scanned the room for his fellow champions. He spotted Garen and Lux quickly enough, standing in a sea of Demacian blue and white and gold in their dress uniforms.

Dress uniforms. What was the point of clothing only meant for show? Pantheon straightened, the comfortable weight of his chest plate on his shoulders and leather skirt on his legs more than armor enough for this farce.

Darius and Draven were dressed as impractically as the Demacians, though Draven took his even farther by leaving his jacket open so he looked a mess in addition to not being able to fight. Katarina, though clad in a slinky black dress, at least looked ready to tear a slit down the side and pull a knife at any given moment.

A waiter offered Pantheon a comically undersized pastry on a stick. Pantheon took it with a nod, perplexed at the small portions given the piles of food heaped on numerous tables around the room. The excess did little to improve his mood, but he headed over to fill his plate nonetheless.

Was he supposed to be talking to these people? He didn't know, and focused instead on these little cubes of cheese. They didn't have cheese like this on the Mountain.

Pantheon was contemplating what bread would pair best with this cheese when a very round man in Noxian colors sidled up to him. Pantheon nodded at him and ate another cube.

After a formal and stinted introduction, the man launched in to a long and rambling history of aqueducts in various Noxian cities. Pantheon nodded and occasionally tried to get a word in edgewise, all the while wondering how long he was required to stay and whether that time would be shortened if he threw his conversation partner out of one of these giant expensive looking windows.

Finally escaping, he was ambushed by a couple in excessively loud clothing.

"So, Artisan," the woman said "can I take it from your presence that the Rakkor have finally decided to join the rest of Runeterra in a more civilized manner of discourse?"

He scowled. "You can take it as the Rakkor fulfill their obligations, and no more than that."

"That is disappointing. Perhaps you should come to more of these functions and listen. You may learn something to bring back to your mountain."

The crack from Pantheon's fist crushing his plate shattering was largely swallowed by the room. The pair talking to him looked horrified.

A hand touched the crook of his arm. Acting on impulse, he grabbed it, twisting it around to disable its owner, but its owner pulled it deftly from his grasp.

"Lord Gracium, Lady Gracium, would you mind if I borrowed the Artisan?"

It took him a moment to recognize Leona, with the makeup and shiny red dress and hair wrapped around her head in a braid.

She led him toward the windows and away from the crowd. Here he could almost hear himself think.

"You looked miserable," she said with a smile. "Is this the first one of these you've come to?"

He smiled back for the first time that evening. "It was not my choice, trust me. And thank you."

"I try to protect people off the field as well as off. And the Lord and Lady looked in need of rescuing."

They laughed. If not for the setting and costumes it would be just like old times. But the setting was different, and it wasn't.

"So do these things get any easier?"

Leona shrugged, lips tightening. "Not really. But you do get better at resisting the urge to break everything." She looked him up and down. "Proper battle attire couldn't hurt either."

"Battle is such a simpler mode of communication." He could see that she agreed and it made all this better, if only by a little.


End file.
